Free From Faults
by Dark Caustic
Summary: If Dean's going to leave Sam for an angel of the Lord—which he didn't even believe in two years ago—he should at least have the decency to tell Sam to his face. And the high-end flirting routine Dean and Cas are staging in front of him right now? So does not count. (coauthored by Catchclaw on Ao3)


I'd tell them to get a room, but we already have one. One where Dean spent all night curled up against me.

Feels like an eternity ago, now that he's making eyes at the angel. I want to lean across the table and say, _I can see you, you know_.

Instead, I huddle up to my coffee cup and let my heart sink down into my shoes as Dean brushes his shoulder along Cas's as he reaches for the creamer. Gives him that same smile he once gave me. You know—shortly before our touching moved beyond the strictly brotherly.

I'm trying my best not to jump to conclusions. I mean, Cas has been around humanity long enough to figure out what's up between Dean and me without it having to be spelled out, right?

And he wouldn't get between us. I think.

He's our friend and I have to remind myself of that. Yeah, he favors Dean, but I get it. I drank demon blood.

That probably puts a kink in the feathers of even the most forgiving angel.

As for Dean's behavior, well, Cas did pull him from Hell. I can't really hold it against him if he gets all starry-eyed in the guy's presence.

Dean called him over a symbol on a wall in the latest supposedly haunted house we uncovered, just south of the Colorado border.

We were drawn to the town after a typically good-nature competition between the town's two high school football teams took a turn for the bloody. The other sports quickly followed and, one beheaded cheerleader later, Dean and I were on site, talking to shaken teenagers. We followed rumors to the abandoned house with a series of sigils painted on the walls.

I thought we were having a repeat of that house in Texas—you know, when a local legend gets enough belief behind it that it becomes real—but Dean was certain it was something else.

"Kinda looks like angel mojo, doesn't it?" he said.

"Not really. It doesn't look like Enochian at all, actually," I said, turning my head sideways to see what he was seeing. "We should probably call Bobby."

But he wasn't listening to me. Just said Cas could get here faster.

Which was true. He's practically Mercury when Dean calls, showing up before he can even hang up the phone.

Just to tell us _what I already freaking knew_ which was that it wasn't Enochian.

Turns out someone thought it would be fun to claim this house, this land for the Celtic goddess of carnage, effectively leaving her mojo all over the place.

"Seriously? The Celts have a goddess of _carnage_?" Dean'd said in disbelief over his hamburger when I revealed this yesterday.

"Yeah. Her name's Agrona," I'd supplied.

"That's kind of metal," Dean'd said. "No, that's _totally_ metal."

"I don't think Celtic Goddesses are made of metal," Cas had said.

Neither one of us had touched that one.

"So how do we kill her?" Dean'd asked, getting right down to brass tacks.

Turned out to not be so much killing her but banishing her back into mythology; but either way, Cas made some sort of decision to hang around and make sure we were okay.

Or something.

"You know, we've been hunters for a while, Cas," I'd said. "This isn't our first rodeo."

"Yeah, but why bring a knife to a gunfight when you can bring an atomic bomb?" Dean had suggested, unhelpfully.

He'd looked down just as I went to glare at him. To get him on the same page as me.

"She's not actually real. She's an idea. A myth within a myth. So, theoretically, all we have to do is take down her sigil and bless the place and weird shit will stop happening," I'd explained.

Dean'd pursed his lips at me, considering this. Then shrugged. "Sounds simple enough."

So ridding the town of Agrona's magic went off without a hitch (when does that ever happen?) and we didn't even need to touch our angel reservoir, so why Cas is still here is beyond me.

* * *

Sam is disquieted, and I am not sure why.

Certainly, he has never been as – receptive to my presence as has Dean. Which is my fault, as much as his own. I've not always been as welcoming to him as he might have liked. As, I think, he was given to suspect he deserved.

Still. I'm not certain how I might explain why I wished, once, to keep him at bay. For reasons beyond the burn of demon in his veins. How I once took what was his and used it for my own ends. For his brother's, I mean. For Dean's.

Balthazar might say that I tell myself these things in order to assuage my guilt. "They're fairy tales, dear boy," he'd trill, "stories that let you sleep the long-begotten night. If you slept at all, that is."

I shake Balthazar away and lean into Dean, now, when I have no need to. I let my hand linger on his shoulder when there really is no cause.

I do this even though I know that Sam has seen it. Can see. That it upsets him, somehow. But still, he has not asked and I am not one to volunteer information without cause. For now, I have none. No matter how displeased Sam seems to have me close at hand.

But I'm uneasy. There's something in the air unsettled and I do not wish to leave Dean, now. And there are souls enough in heaven to keep it all line without me there, for a while.

So I will stay.

Dean sits back, his body easy and slow. Relaxed, now that the danger has passed.

I study him. Too closely, I suppose, because he gives me a wink and reaches for the salt.

"Earth to Cas," he says. "Hey. You still with us?"

I can feel Sam's glare before I answer, and something in my mind takes notice. A tremor up my spine.

If I were human, I would say it was my sixth sense.

But I am not. Human, that is. So I ignore it, ignore Sam, and smile back at Dean. "Yes," I say. "I am."

* * *

"Good. Was afraid we'd lost you for a moment," Dean says and grins like a fool. My fool.

Cas—ever the people person—just gives him that vaguely blank confused look he's mastered through the years. You'd think after several millennia of watching people he'd have picked up a few social skills.

Dean's still got the hunter's high of a good kill kicking through his bloodstream and wants to burn it out. I know I've got no choice but to lean back and let him pick his poison: booze or gambling or mind-blowing sex.

Only I'm a little less sure of his preferred partner than normal. At least when he wants to pick up a chick as a victory dance, I can come to terms with the fact that he just needs to scratch an itch that I can't reach.

And he always comes back to me in the morning.

If he fucks Cas, all bets are off.

Between sucking salt off his fingers and chasing French fries with coffee, Dean mutters something about us making a good team.

Cas catches my eye and I know he's got his leg pressed against Dean's under the table without even having to look.

I just grip my own coffee cup tighter. Anything to keep myself from leaning across the Formica and yanking them apart. Let them know I know what's going on.

If Dean's going to leave me for an angel of the Lord (I'd like to remind him that he didn't even _believe_ in them two years ago), he should at least have the decency to tell me to my face. And the high-end flirting routine going down right now does not count.

"You want to hang around?" Dean asks, his eyes over Cas' face. "Go on another hunt with us?"

"I'm sure Cas has more important things to do than play tagalong to a couple of hunters," I say. A little sterner than I meant to.

Apparently my bitch voice isn't penetrating the atmosphere of planet Dean today because he doesn't even flinch, yet alone let his gaze stray from Cas.

"Good backup never hurt anyone," Dean says, way the fuck too reasonable.

I make a noise that I can't identify and accidently leap to my feet.

"Dude," Dean mutters looking up at me and yeah, I was right. Cas has his thigh flush with Dean's. You know, my brother.

_My_ lover.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I come up with. "Too much coffee on an empty stomach."

"You know that's solved by eating," Dean says and motions towards my untouched, wilted salad.

"Fuck you," I reply, somewhere between joking and not and retreat to the men's room.

Suffice to say, it's not my most graceful hour.

* * *

Sam leaves in what I think Dean would call a huff and I can't say I'm not grateful. He has been rather grating, as of late.

I wait until he disappears, broad back around the corner, and I turn.

"Dean," I say, tipping into his shoulder. "I'll stay. If that's what you wish."

He gives me a smile, that one that always makes me shake inside my Grace.

"I wish," he says. "Yeah. But what about you? It's not always about what I want, you know."

"What I want," I whisper, armed with some new kind of courage, one I can't quite identify. "What I want, Dean, is to—"

"I'm gonna wait in the car," Sam barks, looming over us again, sudden. "So whenever you two are, you know, done or whatever. That's where I'll be."

Dean's eyes flick up with something like affection. "Yeah, ok. We're coming. Hold your shorts on, Sammy."

Sam stomps away, a giant, petulant child, and I know the moment's gone. And my newfound bravery along with it.

Dean shakes his head. "Ignore him. He's just pissed because it's not the Sammy show right now. I'm not."

I have no idea what he means. It must show on my face, my lack of understanding, because he laughs.

"He's an attention whore, is what I'm saying, Cas. He may bitch about it, sure, but he wants whole freaking world to spin around him 24 hours a day."

"Oh," I say, for I have no way of assessing the accuracy of this statement.

Dean surprises me, then, as he is wont to do. Reaches up and cups my face. Gentle. His palm warm against my cheek.

"Cas," he says, low. In a voice only I can hear. "I really want to kiss you."

My mouth opens before I can stop it and I breathe: "Yes. Please. Yes."

He's laughing when my lips brush his. When his tongue strokes over my own. And then he's pulling away before I can do anything but sigh.

"Yeah," he huffs, tapping my cheek. "We gotta do that again. With maybe a few less strangers around, huh? Unless," he drops his eyes and licks his lips. "Unless that does something for ya. Havin' people see."

"I—I don't know what you—" I manage. "Dean. What are you—?"

He slides out of the booth and tugs me after. Ignores the stares, the sullen sparks from the people around us. "C'mon. We gotta convince Sam to take a field trip this evening. Give us a little time to, uh. Talk."

This is, I know, a plan that is misguided, at best. Sam is not easily fooled, nor do I understand why Dean would wish to lie to him. To be disingenuous, like this. Perhaps it is the notion of—altering our relationship in this way, in the way that grows from kisses, that distresses Dean. That he wishes to hide from Sam.

For a moment, I wonder what it is about me that he finds shameful.

But then he touches my hand and grins, reckless and beautiful, and holy fire could not keep me from his arms, I think.

"Yes," I say, mouthing the words though their meaning escapes me. "A field trip."

* * *

You know, I used to be jealous of the Impala.

Of the way Dean would run his hands over her, take care of her, call her "Baby." Always took the time to figure out what was wrong with her.

It's stupid. Trust me. I know.

But I wanted him to care about me like that.

Selfish. I know.

I climb into the passenger's seat and slam the door as hard as I can. It doesn't make me feel any better.

Seems there is a new contender for my jealousy, though. Something with blue eyes and wings.

They come out a few moment later, Dean and his angel. He's grinning. Like a fool, again. Wags his eyebrows at me.

Like, really, Dean, it wasn't that good of a hunt. And Cas isn't that great of a catch, if that's what he's suggesting.

Dean clambers behind the wheel, onces me over. "Doing all right there, princess?" he asks and pats my thigh.

"Fine," I say.

Dean mutters something about how talkative I am under his breath as Cas climbs in the back seat.

I manage to reel myself in enough to not bang my head on the dashboard in frustration.

Instead I look at Cas in the rearview mirror. He's sitting dead center of the back seat, eyes shifting from me to Dean like he's trying to figure something out.

It's a quiet ride over. Everybody looking, nobody talking, but at the motel, I shoot out as soon as we're in park and fucking slam the car door, again, as hard as I can. The noise of it echoes off the nearby building, vibrates in her frame.

And that _does_ it, snaps the tension like a fucking twig.

Dean rips into me. "What is your problem?" he yells at me over the hood.

I glance at Cas, who's still staring at me like he can't pinpoint something. Twisting his gaze from Dean to me and back again.

"Nothing," I grunt.

"You seem upset," Cas says.

I've never wanted to punch an angel before, but I guess there's a first time for everything.

"You've been nothing but pissy since we started this hunt," Dean accuses.

"You know what?" I start.

"What?" Dean tempts, staring at me. Daring me to say something stupid.

Cas, however, seems to think I'm serious. He stays attentive. To me. To my opinion and my words.

The bastard. Couldn't just save Dean and incidentally fuck up our relationship, has to be a genuinely _good guy_, too, and as much as I want to yell at him to leave, I find myself sighing instead.

"You know what?" I say again, softer this time. "I need some air. I'm just gonna go and get a drink or something." I turn to wander back to the main road.

"Good plan," Dean agrees. A little too quickly.

I hear Cas say his name as I turn around the corner but I just shove my hair out of my face and keep walking.

Good things never last, do they?

* * *

We don't waste a lot of time talking, after that.

Dean glares after Sam for a moment. Out of habit, I suspect. But then his eye catches mine and the spark between us comes back to life.

He grabs my sleeve in his fist and drags—and, I admit, I'm taken a bit off guard—and by the time I've determined what's actually happening, we're inside and he's pressed up against me tight, his grin tracing my throat.

It is not—unpleasant. Perhaps an understatement.

Whatever else might have filled my mind—concern for Sam, confusion as to what Dean wants from me, what I might want from him—he pulls it away from my body with his mouth, the hum of his voice on my jaw, the crest of his fingers sneaking under my shirt.

"Cas," he murmurs, a little less sure than before. "You—you trust me?"

This seems to me an odd question, at best, for I can't imagine anyone turning themselves over to Dean like this, hot touches and low little moans, without there being some modicum of trust.

His teeth catch on my ear when I don't respond at once and I groan, roll up into his hips out of instinct and need.

"Hey," he whispers. "You still with me?"

My hands, which I thought had disappeared, come back to me. Dig into his shoulders, nails and bone and flesh, until he cries out, his voice an ocean in my ear.

"Yes," I say. "Dean. I'm here. I trust you."

"Thank fuck," he sighs. Snags my belt and pulls me after. Laughs flushed and happy and pushes me back.

I fall again, as always, for him.

My breath tumbles out of me yet I reach for him, my fingers anxious for his skin, as if they know what awaits them. The pleasure it will bring me. That I hope I might bring him.

But he resists. Of course he does.

Stands at the foot of the bed and grins down at me, preening.

"Patience, Cas," he teases, dropping his jacket to the floor. "You'll get what you want soon enough."

I growl, put my unhappiness at this turn in my eyes. But I trust him. I wait.

He winks at me, cocky, and strips off for me. And it is for me, this performance, his eyes fluttering, his hands catching the lines of his thighs, his arms, his ass.

I sit up on my elbows and watch, burn holes in his chest with the wanting, with his damnable desire to win, to control. But I trust him, still. I wait, even if it means my nails snag the bedspread and my lips are copper from my own teeth.

Then he is naked and I am still clothed and I find that incredibly distressing and not at all what I want, but before I can protest, he's over me. Straddling my hips and holding my face in his hands.

"Hi," he says, his lips twitching. Close, so close to mine.

"Dean," I moan, cupping his knees and shoving my head up. "Please. I don't—I want you to—"

He shoves his tongue through my lips, not quick, as before, but deep and slow, his mouth working in time to his hips as they kick even and steady into my own. My hands find his waist, his sides, and I hold him, marvel in him, as we kiss.

He overwhelms me, completely, and yet I am still dressed.

I yank myself away. "Off," I pant, words hot over his cheek. "Dean. Want these off."

He makes a little noise and his body shudders in my hands. "Yes," he breathes. "Sit up."

He slides back on my thighs and yanks me by the collar. Together, we tear at my shirt, uncoordinated and sloppy, until we're both giggling and trying to kiss and fussing at buttons and—

"Oh fuck it," he sighs, and rips the thing open. Pulls it over my head. Tosses it away and shoves me down, grabs at my belt and tugs it away. Opens my pants and yanks—"shoes, Cas," he huffs, "kick off your damn shoes"—then peels away my boxers and gives me the sneakiest smile.

"Yeah," he says, appraising. "You're fucking beautiful, Cas."

His eyes linger on my cock, which, I admit, is perhaps my most prominent feature at the moment. But then they slide up my body, over my stomach and my chest, touch the planes of my face and come to rest in my eyes, all that green spread out and ready, just for me.

I love him.

It hits me quick, like a blade into my side, as he crawls up my legs and sprawls over me, luxuriates in my touch.

This thing in my chest when I see him, when I feel him near, when our skin touches even a little—much less like this—it is, I think. Love.

I reach for him again, get my fingers slick into his hair, and this time he comes willingly. Gives himself to me, all that he has, curls it through his kiss and presses it sweet into my throat.

Then he shifts and his cock brushes mine and I stop thinking quite so clearly, after that.

* * *

I find a seedy bar just down the street. It's not as far away from them as I would like to be, but if I'm going to get drunk—and _I'm going to get drunk_—I'd rather not have to worry about navigating my way back.

If I have to go back to that room and find them tangled up together, I refuse to do it sober.  
For everyone's sake.

The bartender is kind of cute and gives me a wink as she pours me a double shot of jack and I toy with the idea of trying to pick her up, just to screw her in the backseat of the Impala because I know it'd piss off Dean.

Instead, I knock the shot back and repress that thought. Being petty isn't going to help the situation.

To think, he gave me so much shit about fucking Ruby.

While I was alone because he was in Hell.

While he was in Hell because of me.

While I was trying to get him out of Hell and, oh hell…

I couldn't do it. But Cas could. And that's why I'm getting drunk alone on a Tuesday and Dean is spending his hunter's high on Cas.

Unless he's _under_ Cas. Giving it up to the angel. Letting Cas take care of him...

The thought makes my airway constrict so quick I have to scrub it from my brain in order to keep breathing.

I must be a cosmic joke. God has an ironic sense of humor.

Dean drew the line. Said there was no such thing as angels. Thought it was just us in the dark taking on all the evil, and it always seemed like that made him want me more. Cling to me more.

Like I was his something good in all that dark.

But now Cas is here and Cas disproves all that. There are angels. We're not alone in this fight. Which basically means, he doesn't _need_ me.

For all I know, I was just a convenience all these years. A ready, warm, willing body, full of hero worship, eager to please and only a bed away.

I get why Dean wants Cas, okay? I do.

I can't exactly say I wouldn't feel the same if I was in his position.

But Cas is ancient. An angel. Surely, he could have his pick. He can't be that ignorant. He has to know what's going on between us, and yet he still…

I rub my eyes, try to shove the image from my mind, but I don't succeed. It lingers right there, now smudged with jack's hazy fingerprints.

The two of them plastered in motel sheets, with Dean easing him down and rocking him through it. Hands soft and the rasping of stubble. Muttering all that sweetness he did to me on _our_ first time. To Cas, now.

Just…

Why'd he have to go after _my_ Dean, my love?

It's like… Like _I_ always knew that Dean was something special (he'd kick my ass if he heard me say that) but have Cas go after him… I guess Dean is something else, entirely, then. Not just a once in a lifetime kind of person.

A once in many lifetimes kind of person.

I should be grateful, to Cas. For Dean. For doing what I couldn't. For returning Dean to me, but I didn't anticipate this. Exactly. Especially after the way he celebrated his return from the dead with me.

I rub my face, trying to scrub out a dozen sense memories of Dean wrapped around me and the bartender asks if I'm okay.

"Yeah," I say and ask to settle my tab.

"You going to get home all right?" she asks, handing me my change.

"Yeah. I'm not driving," I assure her, leaving a handful of ones on the bartop and push out the front door, into the cool night air.

* * *

The way he touches me—

First his fingers between my thighs. Chasing, drifting, following some path over my skin that only he can see. And the way he looks at me, then. Trying to be wicked, I think, but there's so much tenderness there, an eagerness to please, that it's overwhelming.

"Hey," he says again. "Hey, Cas. You like that? This ok?"

I roll my eyes and push my flesh into his hands and open my mouth without thinking. "Fuck yes, Dean. Please."

He chuckles. Rubs his thumbs in circles on my hips and waggles his eyebrows.

"Oh, really? Where'd you learn to talk like that?"

"I'm not a child," I grit, tongue fast over my lips.

"Right," he whispers. "I know you're not, sweetheart."

He pitches down, then. Pushes his mouth against my chest and shifts down, moves his kisses to meet his hands, still holding my hips, and I knock my knees in, hold him there between my thighs and beg.

We don't do that, as a rule. Angels. We don't beg or plead or even ask, we do as we are told, but Dean, he makes me want, makes me want him so badly that the begging, it comes easy.

"Dean. Dean!" I moan, my hands curling on his neck. "Please. Suck my cock, Dean. I need you to please I want—"

He growls, the sound turning in my flesh, and does as he is told.

He strokes my stomach, pets my hip as he washes over me, holds me fast and lavishes me with his tongue, his lips, his smile-oh his smile is what makes me wail, what makes my heart stutter between my ribs.

He sits up with a start, his face smeared with spit, his hair askew, this beautiful blush rushing over his throat. And his cock, shivering and flushed and pushed anxious up against his gut.

"Goddamn," he pants. "Cas. You keep makin' noise like that, and I'm gonna—"

"Yes," I say. "Want you to. Dean. Wanna see you."

His whole body ripples, flows up from his knees to his face, and he grabs his cock and stares at me. Appraising again.

"Sweetheart. I wanna fuck you so goddamn bad, but you've got me so crazy that I can't—"

Enough. Enough enough talking.

I sit up and grab him, shove my knees into the bed and hold him tight. Lick promise in his ear and say:

"Shut up, Dean. Lie down here like a good boy so I can make you come."

"Oh my god," he huffs out—mouthy to the last—before I manhandle him, knock him into the sheets and press my body to his. Mold my chest, my thighs, my hands to his own and kiss him, fuck, into submission.

It doesn't take much.

I make him suck on my fingers before I'll touch him, before I snake my hand between us and fist  
first his cock, then mine, too.

His head shoots back and he starts forming the dirtiest sounds, starts rolling my name in between, a gold thread among the muck.

"Cas—Castiel, you son of a—!" He fucks up, desperate, laces his fingers around my neck and shoves his tongue into mine, unable to form kisses or think or breathe, and he's close, his cock searing my palm, my dick, and he is. Mine.

He arches one last time and screams wet and heavy over my lips. Comes hot over my cock, digging his name into my shoulders, sketching it in blood.

He is the most magnificent creature I have ever seen, ever had the privilege to touch, and watching him lose himself to me is—

It is—

I come over his belly, his name low in my throat—"Dean. Fuck. _Dean_"—and he purrs beneath me, twists to kiss me as I shove my sticky hand into his hair and then someone—Sam—clears his throat.

* * *

Dean's a mess of limbs under Cas.

Right.

I expected this.

Right?

They're both staring up at me. Equally wide-eyed. Startled. Like cats.

Feels like the air is crackling.

"Samuel," Cas says.

"No," I say and shake my head. The shake travels down the rest of my body. Settles in my hands.

"_No_," I repeat, as the sizzle in the air gets locked up in my muscles.

There's a sudden, snapping disconnect between my mind and my body as I thunder across the room and physically haul Cas off of Dean by the shoulder, somehow, and dump him like a bag of bones at the foot of the bed.

He gazes up at me, come smeared across his belly, a blur of saliva at the edge of his mouth—Dean always was a messy kisser—hands flat on the floor now. One knee drawn up towards his chest, the other tucked under his body. Makes no attempt to cover himself. Like a human might.

I could crush him.

I _should_ crush him.

But Dean derails me. Says my name. And I reel around to find him leaning up on his elbows. He's equally debauched. Lips kissed puffy and pink—by Cas—and that crackle is there again. In the air. In my head. In my skin and pulsing through my veins.

"No!" I bark and grab him by the chin, forcing him back into the bed. I want to hold him down, mark him up, straddle his face and feed him my cock and make Cas watch so he knows —so they both know—who Dean really belongs to.

Dean gasps, reaches up and threads his hand through mine. Tries to pull me down to his waiting mouth.

"No," I hiss and wrench his hand off me. Slam it down into the pillow. Lean over him. Use my weight and leverage to hold him down as I draw one leg over his hips. Pin him there. Naked and vulnerable under my clothed form. Jeans scratching at his skin.

He clips my name off on an exhale as I hold his head still and gently, at first, lay my lips over his.

I can still feel the heat of Cas on his body. The taste of the angel tangled up in his mouth and I find myself yanking his head back, forcing his jaw open more so I can get my tongue between his teeth and lick out any remnants—any memories—of Cas.

Kiss him stupid until I can no longer taste Cas on him. Till he can no longer consider the angel an option.

Dean whines. Already trying to buck up into me. Trying to grind his hips against mine. Hungrily chasing friction I'm not ready to give him.

Fucking desperate, unquenchable bastard.

Something creeps out of the back of my mind. That we still have an audience— an angel-shaped elephant at the foot of the bed.

Dean's jaw is still locked up in my fist as I glance over my shoulder at Cas.

He's so tiny, now. Like I could crush his bones for my bread if I wanted to. Mouth hanging open, eyes wide—half-startled, half-pissed. Debating his next move, no doubt.

I could care less that he's an angel. He's an insatiable tease for bringing Dean back to me only to fuck him in our bed.

The only thing keeping me from tearing him apart right now is Dean under me, muttering, "Sammy. Sammy, please—"

Begging the right name this time. My name.

I sneer, hope Cas hears that. Hope he knows who Dean really begs for, really comes for.

I shove more of my weight down into Dean and he makes a breathy mewling noise, stills a little bit; I've found that place where pleasure meets pain. I lock eyes with Cas again.

I can see the wheels turning in Cas's head as he surveys the scene. "You," he says to me then turns to Dean. "And you?"

Ding. The boy's finally got it.

Took him long enough.

Dean's free hand digs into my back. He flicks his eyes from me to Cas, hips giving one abortive pump up into me as he sighs, "Yeah, Cas. Yeah." Resigned.

Cas's eyes met mine one more time. Half an infinity locked up in those irises and I barely catch a glimpse of his hand fisting up right before he vanishes.

There's a shift in the room. In the mood or the air or something. I can't place it. But it's enough to throw me off, to give Dean the upper hand just long enough for him to shed me like a sweaty t-shirt. He knocks me off him and jumps out of bed, a bruise already forming on his jaw in the shape of my hand.

"That's it. You've done it!" he spits at me, reaching for his jeans.

"I've done it?" I holler at him, wanting to throw him back in the bed where he belongs.

He fastens his belt. "Yeah," he says. Tugs a shirt over his head.

I scramble off the mattress and make a grab at him, but he backs out of my reach.

"I've done it?" I try again. Because, newsflash, _I_ wasn't the one cheating on my lover.

"Just let the angel know we're in an incestuous relationship," Dean says. Waves his arm dramatically to emphasize his frustration.

I step back like I've been struck. "I thought he knew!"

"Well, he didn't," Dean says, like, duh. Of course the ethereal being doesn't know I have a boyfriend who's also my brother.

"Why are you fucking him anyways?" I demand, getting up in Dean's space.

He doesn't rise to the bait. Just does that thing where he glares at me from the corner of his eyes. "'Cause. Not everything's about you, Sam," he says, stomping out of the room and slamming the door so hard the wall quakes.

* * *

Oh.

Oh, I see.

One moment, my eyes are locked in Sam's. Angry. Feral. Intent.

My body, my Grace coiled and ready, anxious to strike, to put this boy down, to do what I must to take Dean for myself.

In the next—

I catch myself right on the edge of destruction, of mayhem, of pain, and I—

I bring myself to heaven.

Throw myself in the green grass. Force the violence away, ball the anger in my fist. Control it. Stop it. Breathe.

I open my eyes and look up at one version of the sky.

The anger, my desire to damage, to inflict pain-it doesn't go away. But I quiet it in the clouds.

The clouds that chase one another overhead, the wind easing their shapes forward and back.

What is Dean to me that he might make me feel such things? Might make me capable of such fury? Might make me forget myself, as I have almost done.

I might have killed Sam, just now. And wounded Dean in the process.

Just the thought of hurting him, it strangles me, twists my face into something terrible. I cannot. I will not. Hurt him.

Not after how hard he fought not to be saved.

It took my brothers and I much longer to retrieve Dean from Hell than we had planned.

Yes, we knew the mission was risky, knew even that some of us would perish in the trying, but still. It was far more difficult than our leaders—than I—had imagined.

This was in part, no doubt, due to the ferocity we encountered, the demons' determination to keep the Righteous Man in hand. No doubt.

We were ready for this.

But we were utterly unprepared for Dean.

He did not, it seemed, want to be rescued. Fled from one of my comrades after another, turning deeper into the halls of Hell, until it looked very like all of us would burn before Dean was safe.

So I went myself—frustrated, desperate, ready to do what I must to lift this one soul from the talons of the Pit.

He fled from me, too. At first.

I showed him the shimmer of my Grace, my holy being in all of its terrible glory, and he—his soul—it ran.

He screamed, in the way that only a soul can, the sound of heartbreak and terror and pain. So much pain in him, then.

I reached out to him, for him, and got a glimpse, a flash of what this man was, had been. What he valued. What he loved.

Sam.

I did not know that's who it was, the entity that flickered at the edges of Dean's soul, persistent and pure, even in the midst of Hell. But I could see that he was important, that he was the only bit of life to which Dean Winchester still clung. His only lifeline to world he was destined to save.

Or so I thought, at the time.

So I did what is not done, what we should never do: I draped my Host, my Grace in Sam's body, his essence, his face.

"Dean," I cried, my voice slicing through a thousand souls to reach the only one that mattered to me then. To all of us.

Dean hesitated, slowed his flight, turned the focus of his soul towards me. Towards what he thought was Sam.

"Dean," I said again. Warm this time. And whole. "You must leave this place. Come on. Come with me."

Dean's soul, it came into my arms, twined itself around my wings and breathed: "Sammy."

I held that face, restrained my Grace, even as we shot up and out, broke through into air and light.

"Sammy," Dean's soul sang. "Sam."

I built his body from ash and let him see that it was Sam's hands remaking him. Sam sketching him back to being, to what he had been, before.

Sam's touch burned once more into his flesh.

"Sam," Dean's mouth sighed. "Sam." His first words on an earthly plane.

His first action? A kiss, a press of lips to what he thought was Sam's mouth, and I let him feel the soft he expected, let him taste the familiar and the loved.

Then I covered his eyes with my wings. Wiped away the tears.

"Sleep," I said. "Dean. Rest now."

I tucked him under the earth and flew away. Bid him wake as soon as I was out of sight.

And thought nothing more of my deception. One that was necessary—but now, I see, also unfair.

The brand I rent into Dean's shoulder is nothing compared to the one Sam dug long ago into his soul.

Oh.

Oh, Sam.

I ache for him, then. The anger, the fear, they fall away like scales from my eyes and oh. I can breathe again.

How can I not ache for him. For Sam.

What I feel for Dean—my love—Sam's carried, given, kissed for years, it seems. The way he looked at me just now, it sprang not from affection newly planted but from an old one, deeply rooted. Perennial.

He loves his brother with a ferocity I cannot hope to match. And feel no need to.

No.

I sit up with a start, dirt slick under my palms.

His eyes when he stared at me, his lips wet from Dean's mouth. His fingers clutching his brother like something precious. Something threatened. My own anger, rising to meet his, terrible and strong. Overpowering.

Not just anger. Jealousy.

He's had a lifetime with Dean, in human terms, and knows him in ways I cannot hope to understand. There's so much about Dean I'll never know, even having basked in the glory of his soul, that Sam must take for granted.

How can I be surprised, then, that such an emotion, a feeling that could mark the soul, could also find its way into the flesh?

No.

I have no desire to fight Sam. To destroy him, as I might have done today, all for the love of his brother. The one creature, the one feeling, we might have in common.

Indeed, I cannot understand from where such an impulse, a passion, might have arisen. I fight when I must, for I am a soldier, a creature of war, and I—

I see the sigils in my mind, the Celtic signs of slaughter and destruction that anointed that house, that room.

Sigils of much greater power than I thought, perhaps. Deserving of greater respect.

Ah. I seem to have—underestimated their importance. The stature of the goddess to whom they were dedicated, upon whose power they called.

Sam. I must go to him and try to explain.

But how can I, when we would both do what we must to protect Dean, even without the strange interference that these signs, this goddess, have wrought.

I summon my clothes—the last vestiges of Jimmy—and push my fingers through my hair.

My skin still smells of Dean. His touch still on my tongue.

Seeing is one thing. Sharing that gaze with another, I know. Will be a challenge.

* * *

Dean's been gone—I don't know how long.

I sank to the floor as soon as he left and took a few deep breaths.

Wanted to punch the wall but I know Dean will just be pissier than normal if we have to cough out the money to fix a hole in some shitty motel.

My heart rate doesn't come down. Just continues to pound, pound, pound against my chest.

Dean under my hands. Under Cas. Under my gaze. Reaching for us both.

The greedy bastard. I loved him first. I was here. When he left.

I was the one who held him when he cried. After. When Cas brought him back to me. Calmed him out of nightmares, fought to help him, to fix him, brought him back from the brink, eased the tremors of his suffering in the hours of night.

And now Cas is stepping in. Reaping what I sowed.

If Cas had known us before, he would've known better. Known that for me, for Dean, there's no one else. It's always been us. We're always drawn back to each other. Like cosmic design.

Can't he see the lines, the threads, the fucking puppet strings—that always bring us back?

What kind of sadistic fuck is he to show up here with the intent to cut us apart?

And I want…I want Dean to come back.

To tell me that he knows I'm the one he's supposed to be with.

But, fuck, who knows where he is now.

Searching for Castiel, probably. Like he could actually run after an angel who's zapped himself God-knows-where.

Hell. Maybe he's gone to a church to pray Castiel back.

My anger must've snapped something important in my head because I kinda short-circuit and giggle at the idea of Dean in some empty church praying for his angel to return.

"Why are you laughing?"

Cas startles me so much that it's a good thing I was already sitting or I would've fallen down.

He's dressed again, trenchcoat and all, standing over me, dangerously too close to me for a man I just caught in bed with my lover.

I stop laughing as a new sort of pain tears through the hollow in my chest where my heart resides on better days.

Part of me still wants to feel his bones crack beneath my palms, but the sizzle in the air feels off, this time. Tainted, maybe.

With Dean gone.

"What? I—" I stammer. Caught off guard.

Cas doesn't move, just continues to watch me.

"Dean's not here," I finally manage to choke out.

"I'm not here for Dean," Cas says. "I'm here for you, Samuel."

He steps back a little so I'm not straining my neck to look up at him from where I'm stuck on the floor.

"I have a confession to make," he says.

"I kind of already caught you in bed with Dean so…" I don't know why I'm talking.

Cas glares at me in a way that makes me shut up. Makes me realize I can't snap his bones.

"I love him," Cas says. Point blank.

The words echo through that empty space in my chest. Of course he loves Dean. Why wouldn't he?

Cas looks a little lost now, gives a motion that's almost like a shrug. If angels shrug. "I thought it was just because I was assigned to watch over him," he says, almost introspective. "I thought maybe it was the Nightingale effect. Assumed if I ignored it, it would go away."

I'm surprised he knows that phrase. But I keep my mouth shut.

"But the more time I spent watching over him, the stronger it grew. Until I could no longer just—ignore it."

"So you slept with Dean. I'm not blaming you outright, Cas—" I cut in.

He shifts slightly. Settles that infinite gaze on me and I shut my trap again.

"You can't pull a soul out of Hell without its permission," he says in this voice that commands my attention—an Angel of the Lord voice. "That is not—written anywhere. Recorded. It's not common knowledge on this plane. It's one of the many secrets of death."

He sighs. Looks a little lost. A little less ethereal, for a moment. "We searched for Dean for forty days," he says. "Burst through the gates of Hell and fought demons and hellhounds to find him."

I shrink back against the bed.

"When we did find him—when I found him—he wouldn't come near me, Sam. He was—he was screaming," Cas says and pauses like the echoes are with him still. "For you."

I swallow the lump in my throat.

"I couldn't leave him there, for we needed him alive—the world did—so I disguised myself in your form."

"What?" I stutter.

He won't look at me. "I—I took your image and asked Dean to come with me. I couldn't have gotten him out of Hell as I am. My true form—it frightened him. The only thing he wanted to see was you."

He's silent again, a moment. "His love for you, that's what pulled him out of Hell. He would only agree to come with with me when I was disguised as you. Don't—" Cas takes a sudden interest in the carpet before finally looking at me. "I'm sorry, Sam. I did not understand your—the way you felt about each other, until now, and I won't"— he twists his lips—"interfere again."

I realize I'm not the only one who's heart is falling out. That tang, that something strange leftover in the air, seems to fizzle out. Dissipates, tosses ice water over my nerves.

"Cas," I start.

He smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes. "It's all right," he says. "I'll still watch over him. I'll still come when you call. Either of you."

"Cas," I say again, clambering to my feet.

But before I can say anything else, he's gone again.

I have to stand there for a moment and digest his words.

Cas in my skin. To save Dean. My Dean.

Ours.

I shove open the door and step out into the frigid night air.

I have to find Dean. I have to make this right.

* * *

I stand back—Dean would say, I hover—and watch Sam flee, watch him run down the sidewalk and into the street.

To Dean. There is no question about that.

He will have to search. To look in doorways and move into crowded bars.

I, however, do not.

The room, the space, Dean's in is dark. Filled with smoke and the laughter of people who are not happy and there he stands, at the center. His shoulders bent, his eyes shining, his face false open and smiling.

He wants attention, I think. And he's getting it.

The woman behind the bar is laughing as I approach, her head thrown back and her fingers just brushing Dean's wrist.

I have no need to touch him. Just step up behind him and say his name, soft. So that only he can hear.

He flushes and doesn't quite meet my eye. "What do you want, Cas?" he says, more to his glass than to me. "Not in the mood for a lecture."

I resist the urge to grab him, to knock his back into the bar and lick some sense between his lips.

This would not, I think, be the most effective approach.

"When have I ever lectured you?" I say, close to his ear so that there can be no misunderstanding.

He snorts and turns his face to mine. "Once or twice."

I tip my head just enough so that our foreheads brush. His eyes flicker, then. Just enough.

"Sam's looking for you," I say. "Dean. And so am I."

His body tightens, curls in on itself. Seeking protection.

I touch his waist. Sigh against his cheek.

"It's alright," I whisper. "I just wanted to say—I understand. You and Sam. I do. It—it pleases me to know that you have him. Each other."

His fingers find my belt and hold, and he lifts his eyes, finally, to meet mine.

"Castiel," he says, lifting his voice over the music, the noise. "I love him."

"I know," I say. Forgiving.

"Castiel," he repeats, and God help me if I will ever tire of my name on his lips. "No. You don't. I love you, too."

They are incongruous—his words, this place, the roar of something like joy inside my head.

I know little of human affairs, sometimes. Particularly those that deal in the mechanics of love. But I am fairly certain that a bar like this, in what they call the Heartland of this country, is not a common—or appropriate—space in which two beings might admit their affection for one another.

He feels it, too, I think; the questions on the corners of his lips suggest that yes, my instincts are correct.

Something's not right, here.

But my hand is still on his back and his fingers still rest on my hip and for all the confusion in his face, his feelings for me—his love—finds its way through.

"We should go," he says, "We should really go." His gaze drifting to my mouth. "Cas."

My tongue sneaks out and traces my lip. Just to see him shiver. "Yes. The three of us—I think that we should speak. In private."

"The three—?"

I whirl around and snag Sam as he approaches, catch him startled and open-mouthed, and fling us back to their motel room.

Ours.

Sam is shaking his head, halfway between laughter and derision. "What the hell was that?"

"Um," Dean says, and oh. He's still holding on to me. "Sammy. Something weird's goin' on. Can't you feel it?"

* * *

"I. Uh," I start. Epic, I know. "Something weird is always going on with us."

Dean rolls his eyes. He's still got his hand on Cas's waist.

The urge to tear them apart lingers still, but is dampened, somehow. I put my hands in my pockets. Just in case.

"You know what I mean," Dean barks.

I give him a look. "Dude. What is it?"

Cas has a pinched expression. "Dean is right. Something unusual is happening." He frowns, and I swear I can hear the gears turn. "You—Sam. You threw me earlier."

I scratch the back of my head. "I'm sorry, Cas."

"No, you _threw_ me," he repeats, staring like it's obvious as fuck and nope.

I don't follow.

"He's got a point," Dean says, suddenly untangling himself from Cas's person. "He's an angel. You shouldn't be able to chuck him around like that."

"I was really upset?" I suggest.

"He's still an angel."

"I think we missed something," Cas says, agitated. "Earlier. I believe our efforts to eradicate the goddess may have been—insufficient."

Dean and I exchange glances.

"That hunt did seem too easy," I say.

"That bitch is jerking us around?" Dean shouts. "Oh, come on!"

"That's it," I say, as it comes to me. "Agrona. The goddess of carnage. She wanted us to fight. Just like those kids, those football players did." I can feel my face twist. "Cas. You and me. She must've wanted us to battle each other. Over the thing that's most important to us, right?"

Cas looks like he's paused on the edge of a sentence.

"Dean," I fill in. "She wanted us to fight over Dean."

"Cause I'm awesome!" Dean chirps.

I ignore him. Man's had his ego stroked enough for one day. "No, dude. To distract us. To keep us off her scent. She gave us a little extra juice to duke it out. That's how I could toss Cas around. She probably hoped we'd take each other out. You know, so she didn't have to. I don't think she expected us to make amends—"

"To not beat the shit out of each other, you mean?" Dean preens. "Because I am, as I said, pretty fucking awesome."

"Shut _up_," Cas and I say in unison. Dean looks a little freaked.

"And when we did," I continue, "not kill each other, I mean, it must've messed with her mojo."

"Wait," Dean says, soft.

"What?" I snap.

"Have we? Made amends, I mean?" he asks, his voice a little bit delicate and he sinks closer to Cas, like the angel's going to protect him from my wrath.

"What?" I say, annoyed, because damn if I don't want this over, want to figure out how to waste this thing once and for real this time and get the hell on with our lives, but—

I look over, again, and this time I meet Cas' eye.

Oh.

"Amends," Cas says, deep gravel growl. "Sam. To compensate for a loss. A sort of reparation, if you will. I am not certain that we have fully repaired our relations." His arms goes tight around Dean's waist, pulls him close. Holds my eyes steady and firm.

"Oh," I say.

I'm following now. I think.

I slide back over to them. To Dean. To test my theory. Lay my fingers gently over his jaw this time, thumb on his chin as I lean in and kiss him. He tastes like bourbon and sin and forgiveness and when I pull back, he's got his fingers laced with Cas's and it doesn't hurt this time. It doesn't make me want to hear the sound of angel snapping in half.

"I'd like to think we have," I whisper against Dean's lips.

Dean gives me a full body shake. Keeps himself anchored to Cas, puts his other hand on my chest, over my heart. And I can see how he's suspended between us—the gentle pleasure Cas pours into his body and yet he hangs onto me, and I think, this isn't a loss. Maybe this is a gain.

"Sammy," Dean whispers.

I instinctively hold onto him, put my hands over his shoulders and pull him flush to my chest, Cas still curved along his back.

Between us, Dean sighs, goes lax. Content.

I feel Cas's gaze on me as I yank Dean back—towards the bed—to take back what is mine.

Amends, I think at him. Amends amends.

But no. His gaze is not as hostile, as unforgiving, this time. And he follows.

To mend what is between us, all three.

Dean goes willingly into the twisted sheets, dragging me down with him. Fists his hands in my shirt, clings to like he did when he first got out of Hell, pressing his nose into the hollow of my throat. Breathes me in. Strokes my name into my skin with his lips.

I press my fingers into his hips, run my mouth along the shell of his ear. "You can't leave me," I tell him. I beg him.

"I'm not," he says, sucks a bruise into the crook of my neck. "I won't," he promises, sliding his chest across mine.

I kiss him till he's panting and gasping. Till he's messy and desperate and bucking up for me.

But something is still hanging. Unsaid. Undone.

I look over my shoulder to find Cas there, face flushed and eyes all pretty and dark. He's lost his coat, his jacket, and he's perched, waiting.

Waiting for...

Right. Amends.

"Cas," I gasp, extend a hand towards him, which he takes, greedy and hot. Starts to ease himself onto the bed when Dean gets impatient, grabs him by the collar and yanks until Cas tumbles down beside him. And Dean, he keeps one hand on my chest, over my heart, as he locks lips with the angel.

I take that as an invitation to suck on his neck, and palm him through his jeans. He comes up for air just grunt at me.

"Sammy," he warns. Rocks into my hand, his hand still clutching Cas's collar.

"Eager. Always so eager," I say and nip at him again.

"You… Sammy—please," he whimpers.

"Yeah," I ghost back at him, breath hot across his face as he lets go of Cas to pry at my shirt.

"You have"—pulls it till I have to lean up to help him out—"to get this"—he attacks my belt while I toss my shirt—"off." The belt whisks out of its loopholes. His trembling fingers go for the button on my pants, but I slide away to pry off my shoes.

As soon as I do, he reaches out again, across the bed, to Cas. Who's been watching, patient. Quiet. But not anymore.

Dean pulls him into a messy kiss, all tangled tongues and teeth, shoving his hands into Cas's hair. Cas, who grunts and rolls his groin into Dean's hip. Bites off my brother's name between his lips like a blessing disguised as a curse. Begs to be disrobed and Dean just laughs, that half-asshole giggle he's always got up his sleeve, and says, "Yeah, I got you, Cas," and starts to pry off the angel's tie. As soon as he yanks it off, he freezes, glances up at me. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean. Yeah," I say, finally dropping my jeans and tug off both Dean and Cas's shoes as Dean fumbles over the button's on Cas's shirt. Works his shoulders out of the fabric, and maybe I've never really looked at Cas before, but I'm looking at him now and he's really something. Taut muscle, pale skin, a perky ass and the way he revels in Dean's presence. Like Dean is something redeeming, something holy.

I can't begrudge him—Dean's been the center of my whole world as long as I can remember. It's not surprising that someone else would see what he is. What he means.

Dean finally pulls his lips away from Cas and looks up at me, hazed with lust and something a little lighter, a little purer: grace or love or longing, or all of them at once.

"Sammy," he says, his hand upturned towards me.

I let him pull me back into bed just as Cas brushes his face across Dean's chest like a cat, only to cast me a mischievous smirk. Dips two long fingers into the collar of Dean's shirt.

"I think he's a little overdressed," he says. "Don't you?"

"Cas," Dean grunts, breathless and needy, lifting his hips up.

"Shush," Cas says, getting his hand on Dean's belt and working it open. He sinks his teeth into the pulse point in Dean's neck and yeah.

I could get used to this.

"Are you going to help me, Samuel?" Cas asks, without even looking at me.

"Oh, hell yes," I agree, a little more fervently than I meant too. I pull Dean's jeans and boxers away in one hard tug and under Cas's mouth and hands, Dean takes the Lord's name in vain.

* * *

I shove Dean's arms up above his head and hold them, easy. Push my face down to his and kiss him feverish and slick.

He groans into my mouth and arches into me and then—

Then Sam does something I can't see and Dean shakes, breaks a cry off in my teeth.

Ah. It is something pleasant, no doubt.

I sit up just enough for Dean's moans to slip free and look down his body, and yes. I can understand his—distress.

Sam's moving between his brother's legs, dropping kisses between Dean's thighs and teasing his cock with long fingers, sure. The touch of an old hand at this, driving Dean out of his mind.

"Oh _fuck_, Sam!" Dean pants, his face hot against mine. "Cas. Cas, c'mon. Kiss me, I'm gonna—"

I leave one hand clamped on his arms and trace his jaw with the other. Let my thumb drift to his lips and in. Let him bite.

"Shhh," I say in his ear. "Dean. So greedy."

He laughs, this strangled sound that I swallow, lick out from his lovely mouth.

He may be greedy, yes. But so am I.

The bed shifts as Sam gets up, and Dean whines, scrabbles against me.

"Shhh," I hum again, shifting my hand to his shoulder. His scar. Mark that he is mine. "Dean. Be still."

He makes this tiny, needy sound and tries to relax. Kisses me, anxious. Seeking reassurance.

Which I, for once, have no interest in giving.

So I shift, quick. Pin his hips between my knees and kiss him dirty and fast. He opens for me. Lets me do what I will with him. And he is good for me, Dean; lets his arms go slack even as I rock into him, slide my cock over his and suck on his beautiful tongue, yes.

He's so good. So pliant and eager to please.

The bed sinks behind me and I feel Sam's fingers on my spine. Tentative. Afraid. So unlike the way he touches Dean.

I arch into his hand, roll my back against his touch. Keep Dean's mouth busy with my own.

We lie like that for a time: Dean and I intertwined and Sam stroking my skin, at first as if I might startle, as if I might fly away. But he gets bolder, more confident, until he's chasing his fingers with his tongue, skating kisses over my ribs, into the well at the base of my back, and, _oh_—

He does something wonderful and I lose track of myself, letting go of Dean's arms just long enough for him to spring, and then I no longer belong to myself.

Dean clutches my shoulders and Sam grabs hold of my hips and they—

Are very good at this, working in tandem and working me over and oh, I'm—

On my back, suddenly, face full of Sam and mouth full of his hair, which is—unfortunate.

I splutter and Dean laughs and reaches over, tugs Sam's mane behind his ears and catches it in his fist.

"Go on," he says, his other hand snaking behind my head. "Are you two gonna kiss or do I gotta do it for you?"

Sam rolls his eyes and, I admit, I'm struck by his ability to be exasperated while so completely aroused.

"Nobody's buying that for a second, Dean," he huffs, words warm over my chin. "You're totally begging to be fucked. Ok. We get that."'

"What?" Dean squawks, indignant. "Sam, that is such bull, oh _shit_, Cas—"

I find kissing Samuel much more interesting than listening to Dean complain.

He's not—pliant, like Dean. Doesn't tease or hesitate. Just fucks his tongue in, draws my breath out, acts very much like my mouth is his for the taking. That I will be glad to give.

Not far from the truth, I fear.

He knocks Dean's hand from my head, the other from his own, and he grabs me, full-fisted into my skull. Makes me swallow these dark little sighs. And I toss them right the fuck back, moan something ancient over his lips, and shove my hips up to meet his. Get him grinding, fighting. Make him work to keep me down.

And he does, the boy with the demon blood no more. He has no fear of an angel. No.

And in this bed, in his arms, I am glad.

Somewhere, beyond us, behind us or through, I can hear Dean groaning our names in tandem: "SamCasSam. Cas _baby_, please for the love of!"

Sam's head, it snaps back, and Dean swoops in. Moans against his brother's face until Sam lets go of me, wraps his fingers around Dean's neck and pushes their mouths together. Almost. Almost.

Sam keeps rocking against me, his cock riding over mine even as he flicks Dean's lips, nips at them with his teeth. But he doesn't kiss him. Not yet. No.

Dean's eyes are fused, his mouth red and empty, and he's stopped whining. Stopped groaning. Just these soft trapped sounds that drift out of his throat as Sam teases, as I get a hand on his thigh. Run my nails jagged over his skin. Feel him trembling, kinetic, all his energy wrapped tight and held in check just at the promise of his brother's kiss.

Then my fingertips brush his cock and his whole body jerks almost against his will.

"Cas," he cries, even as Sam shushes him, whispers quick into his cheek, but, ah. It seems that Dean can't help himself any longer.

"Sammy. I'm trying—I'm trying to be good," he pants, "but you gotta—please _please_ kiss me goddamn it! Cas, c'mon, I'm—"

Sam takes pity on him. Cants off of me and throws Dean down, knocking his head back into the pillows beside my own. Covers Dean with his body and smothers him with his mouth, with fierce wet kisses that ring in my ears as I turn, stretch out on my side and watch them. Watch Dean luxuriate in surrender.

He is beautiful, like this: his knees drawn up, pressed against Sam's sides. His hands clinging to Sam's shoulders, his nails resting in the curve of his brother's blades. Sam is devour and need, Dean is taken and want, and together, entwined, they sing.

I reach out, lace my fingers through Dean's where they lay on Sam's back. I trace the blood between them and they both moan, Dean twining our hands tighter, pushing us harder against Sam's flesh. I feel the sound Sam makes more than hear it, low and satisfied.

He sits up, sudden, throws all of us off balance, and stretches his arm out to the edge of the bed. Snags something small and coils back. Meets my eye for a moment and smiles. A predator's grin.

For a moment, I can see it: how he was made for Lucifer, how my brother might have rested well in this body, even at the expense of Sam's soul.

But then Sam touches my face. Leans across Dean and kisses me. Gently. With care.

And I think: this is why Lucifer could not have him, this boy. He can play the predator, come and take like a thief in the night, but Samuel, he could never overcome his heart.

"Cas," he says. "I'm—I'm gonna get Dean ready—"

This statement is music to Dean's ears, apparently; he cracks between us like a whip and curses, his hands flinging themselves at our sides.

Sam laughs against my cheek. "So keep him occupied until I'm done, ok?"

"Ok," I say, uncertain.

He slides away, tucks himself between Dean's thighs, and Dean meets him. Spreads his legs and moans as Sam tears at a packet with his teeth and dumps its contents over his fingers and—

Oh. I—

"I see," I manage, my throat tight.

My gaze, it feels greedy as I watch Sam reach down, meet Dean's body with his hand and in and Dean bucks, his body sparking in every dimension at once, and I—

"Cas," Sam sighs. "Fucking kiss Dean already before he spazzes us both off the bed."

Dean turns his face to me, wordless, blood and desire there. Reaches for me. And what can I do but grab him, hold his neck between my palms and mouth at his cries, tug his tongue between my teeth as he shudders and clutches at my shoulders and begs.

Oh, how he begs.

* * *

Dean is molten heat and silk on the inside and it takes me by surprise every time. But I've done this enough to easily find his sweet spot, making him gasp into Cas's mouth and arch into my hand.

Gotta give him a reason to come back to me.

Doesn't take long to get him desperate and needy and trying to get his own hand on his cock, which I bat away. He groans into Cas and tries to wrap his leg around me. I shove it off too and Dean grinds down extra hard on my hand.

Comes up for air just long enough to beg: "Sammy, please. Sam."

And he's caught between me and Cas, then. Hanging onto Cas's shoulder with one hand and reaching for me with his other. Like he can't quite decide what he wants.

I laugh, low and dark and reach past Cas. Wrench Dean up hard by his arms. He makes a noise of confusion as I flip him around like a ragdoll—completely boneless with lust and want—and pin his back to my chest, sink my teeth into the soft skin on the edge of his jaw just to make him squirm.

Cas—Cas _growls_, climbing up onto his knees. His eyes almost seem to glow with the way he's got Dean fixed into his sights.

I don't give Dean time to think. Just run my hand up his abs, hover briefly over a nipple then slide over his neck to tip his head back with his chin. Press my lips against his ear.

"Spread your legs, baby," I hiss.

Turned on six-ways to Sunday, he whimpers and complies. I like that. Like him all desperate and hungry for me.

For Cas.

For what only we could ever really give him.

Cas gets up in his face. Pulls Dean in to kiss him loud and filthy, there on his knees like an obscene prayer.

I nudge my cock up against Dean's slicked hole and when he tries to drive back onto it, I pull my hips away. Hold him tight. Keep him trapped against my chest. Mine.

One of Dean's hands seeks purchase on Cas's ribs, clings to him as the angel crowds against him. Rubs his dick along Dean's, lets one of his hands slide off my brother's face and come to rest in my hair.

Again, I tease Dean, slide along his back, start to slip into him, and when he encourages it, pull away.

"Sam," Dean grunts into Cas's face. He tries to shove himself onto my cock, again—never learns, Dean. Never stops resisting—and I catch his hip in my hand. "Don't. Tease. Me," he grunts in time to Cas's slow slip-drag along his front.

"_Fuck_," he punctuates, one of his hands landing on my thigh, the other trying to control Cas's rhythm and not succeeding.

I do it once more and Dean snaps, throwing his head onto my shoulder. "Please, baby," he cries, high and sweet.

I can never get enough of him begging me and I'm about to do it again when Cas, voice gritty in the heat, says: "Show him some mercy, Sam." And pulls on my hair to emphasize his seriousness. Hard.

"Mmm," I agree and hush Dean, finally taking his hips in my palms and guiding him down onto my cock till we're flush, my chest pushed tight against his back.

Cas doesn't waste a moment getting his hand on both his and Dean's lengths. Groans so pretty when he does it, too. Shoves his chest up to Dean's, slides his hand out of my hair and cups the curve of my shoulder blade instead. Lets me set the rhythm, tugging Dean back onto me then thrusting him up into Cas's capable hand.

* * *

The world starts to turn rapidly, then.

It is as if we three begin to move in time, equal and opposite motion. Each press of hand or mouth or flesh met one for the other and returned in kind.

At the center of it all, of us, is Dean: his head back on his brother's shoulder, his face hot against my own, his mouth working around my tongue as Sam fucks him, as he shoves his hips into my fist.

He is—elemental.

And around him we spin, Sam and I. Sam driving up and me holding Dean down, keeping all three of us from flying off into some uncertain orbit.

The sound of Dean's voice, a curl of pleasure and need, as he rips his head away from mine and screams.

"Sam. _Sammy_. Yes, baby, yes, right there like that please oh God oh Cas yeah Cas—"

"Yes," I rumble in his ear, my lips slipping over Sam's cheek, Dean's cock searing my hand. "You like this, don't you? Like having both of us around you in you over you, don't you, Dean?"

* * *

"Yeah," he mewls for Cas. Full-on heady, animalistic, almost. "Yeah, Cas, yeah."

I wish I could keep him like this forever. Where his guard is down and he lets me mold him. Drag his legs open even more to push further up into him. Compliant.

And Cas-bright blue eyes ghosting over Dean's flesh to mine. He looks even more angelic like this. Not like the vessel he's caught up in, but something bigger. Something powerful.

Between us, Dean whimpers, grabs at Cas's shoulder. "Sam, baby, harder," he demands. "Cas, please, you have no idea—"

It feels like synergy. Like we're melding together—Cas and I—anchored to the bed by Dean, by his desperate pleas, his starving need for us.

Cas encourages him. Mutters all kind of dirty things I didn't even know he _knew_, flicks his wrist in a way that makes Dean go tense and clip off a high whine.

Dean's eyes go wide, find mine. He looks startled, caught unawares by—

* * *

Sam groans against his brother's throat. Bears his teeth.

"Fuck yes," he pants. "Dean. So tight, Cas. He's so fucking tight—"

I turn my head and kiss Sam, shut him up right, and when Dean moans beside us, sluggish and sweet, it hums through our tongues and suddenly Sam stutters, his shoulder shaking under my palm.

I feel my body blurring, my Grace stirring, and my wings itch awful to explode over my shoulders and meld all of us together. To form a different kind of seal against the dangers of the world beyond this bed, these boys, and render us invisible.

Cas tips back and Dean gets a hand on his face. Searches Cas' eyes for a moment, breaking our rhythm with his damn soul gazing. "Cas," he grunts, hips working of their own accord. "Sam, don't fucking stop."

I nose at the back of his head, smirk at Cas and yank Dean back hard, reasserting our tempo and, what the hell, kick it up a notch.

Dean's too busy holding on for dear life to protest. Just whimpers into Cas's collarbone and scrambles along the angel's flesh for a foothold.

"Oh Sam," I slur, pressing Dean deeper into his brother's lap, curling my chest against his. Jerking our cocks together as fast I as can. "Fuck—_fuck_, Dean, come on. Come for us. For Sam and I. Come _on_."

Right on the precipice, we are.

* * *

I keep one hand on Dean's sharp hip and run the other down his spine encouragingly. His hands dig into Cas's shoulders, as he gasps: "Yes. Please—I'm trying. Cas, I'm _trying_—"

I'm following him down the rabbit hole with shallow, fast thrusts that rut him even harder into Cas's hand. And it's almost. Almost…

"Well, well," this high Gaelic voice drones. "Isn't this a pretty picture, eh?"

Nothing kills an orgasm like the sudden appearance of a Celtic goddess.

Actually, it doesn't stop Dean. He tips right over the edge between us, painting Cas white with a breathy groan and squeezing me tight, so damn tight that I—

And I swear, something protective in Cas's programing must take over, because he wraps his arms around Dean—practically crushes him against his chest—as we stare at the goddess, gray green in the cheap light, her armour glinting from the neon sign outside.

"Hunters," she bitches. "Always mucking up my fun."

* * *

She is terrible, this creature. Beauty and gore combined, this sharp tangle of human curves and bloody want.

That energy is back, too, the evil one that makes my skin burn and my hands hard and oh, we must, we must—

"Agrona," I spit.

"Aye," she sighs. "Tis I, sure enough." She turns her gaze on me, tight, a pressure of light. "Ah. But you're not a hunter, are you, angel?"

Before I can reply, she laughs, bells and the screams of the dying rolling out of her mouth in kind.

"It would be me that finds an angel, yeah?" she says, pushing her helmet back. "Figures. I never did have the right kind of luck."

Dean groans, and my attention snaps back to the physical plane, to my cock in my hand and Dean's mouth on my throat and Sam's fingers fast against my neck, growling, squeezing, the look in his eyes feral like mine feel, like I do and—

"Oh fuck," Dean sighs between us. "I gotta do everything around here, don't I?"

And he does what he's best at, then. What he's always been able to do.

He brings Sam and I together, he does. Moves or twists or grabs—I am not aware enough to say—but his hand's on my neck, the other in his brother's hair and then—

"Amends," Dean breathes. "See that, you stupid bitch? It's amends."

—my mouth is on Sam's and I'm kissing him angry, all that energy to fight to kill to hurt poured instead into want and need and love, Dean's fingers weaving us together all the while.

"Yeah," he whispers. Satisfied.

* * *

Cas kisses me like he's drowning and I'm dry land—all hungry teeth and want, practically shoving his tongue against the roof of my mouth. Nips at me, harsh and hard.

I grunt against him at first, something like pain and need rising in my gut. Twisting red-hot for just a moment, coated in the half-formed memory of hating him desperately for taking what was mine—but Dean's hand is warm and reassuring on my back, pressing me into the kiss with a triumphant little sound.

Reminding me that I was not robbed. That I wasn't left. That my bed is not empty.

And that earlier need to tear the angel to pieces shifts inside of me so quickly, I almost lose my breath. Replaced with a new feeling. Something like admiration and desire; an aching feeling to take him and say yes. Say thank you. Say welcome home—what is mine is yours.

Is ours.

I almost miss it in the twist of Sam and Dean—a hiss and a sigh and the whiff of battle that falls over us like snow.

"Well, fuck," Agrona groans. Goddess broken.

A raven screeches somewhere beyond, somewhere that's not here, that's far away from us, and—

"Yeah," Dean sighs. A different kind of satisfaction, now.

* * *

"Yeah," Dean sighs again. Chuckles. His hand runs up and down my spine.

Then he leans in—nips at my ear before ghosting half an inch to kiss the corner of Cas's mouth and say. "I think we just saved the day through mind blowing sex."

Just to push his buttons, I squint up at him. "Would you really categorize that as _mind blowing_?"

* * *

"I have not, as you say, blown anything, Dean," I pant, snagging Dean's hand and shoving it down, between Sam's hips and mine, until his fingers find my cock.

Dean snorts and Sam groans and I—

Am impatient.

"Ok, ok, Cas," Dean says, laughing over my cheek. "Pushy little shit, aren't you?"

He pushes and I fall, my back in the sheets and my cock in his fist. His mouth over mine, smiling.

I squeeze my eyes shut and suck on his tongue as he strokes me and I hear Sam moan, feel his hand on my knee, my thigh, and then the bed's full of sounds, of mine and Dean's and Sam's sweet echoes of—

* * *

Distantly, I'm aware we shouldn't still be this revved up. Being dropped in on the middle of things by a dying goddess should put a damper on the mood, but fuck, we were so close. Nerves are still frying randomly, demanding to know why we stopped.

Demanding the fucking orgasm they were promised. Goddess be damned.

And Dean acts all high and mighty, like the gears never grinded to a halt—getting back to hot and heavy with Cas. Right where we left off, like nothing happened. Climbs the angel like a fucking jungle gym of perfect skin and sculpted muscle and all the sensations of the night slam back twofold.

My brother moans heavy into Cas's face, bites him hard enough to make him gasp and leave a mark and goes right back to kissing him.

I just—

Fuck. Discovered a new kink. That's for sure.

'Cause he's different with Cas than me. Bossy and demanding, crawling over him, muscles rippling salaciously as he claims Cas's mouth. Positively butch. Full-on tongue fucking him, jerking Cas's cock just this side of rough and—

And I stroke furiously to keep up, Cas's skin scalding under my palm, my mouth open and—

* * *

"Fuck," Sam groans above us. "Fuck yes Dean fuck make him come wanna see it come _on_ wanna see—"

He comes then, Sam, he must, because the sound he makes is broken with pleasure and his come falls over my flesh, catches Dean's fingers as they shove up and down over my cock and I scream wordless want and come lightning splash over my own flesh, then. And Dean's.

"Oh, Cas," Dean murmurs, his fist still drifting up and down. "Yeah. So beautiful, sweetheart. So good."

My mouth doesn't work, then, so I am unable to respond.

I am a thousand pieces, yet I feel—new.

Whole.

Sam falls at my side and I open my eyes, at last. Watch Dean lean over my chest to meet his brother's lips. Watch Sam, wrecked and flushed, open his mouth and stroke his sticky fingers over Dean's cheek. I am trapped between them, beneath them, and it is fucking wonderful, this prison.

They turn and curve and rewind us in blankets and cotton and sleep comes near, her wings brushing over my face.

Dean's on his side, his chest against mine, fingers flitting from my shoulder back to Sam's and again. Touching us both in turn.

* * *

"You said she wasn't even a real goddess," Dean smirks at me over the expanse of Cas's chest. Voice weary and fucked out.

"Shut up," I reply with no heat. "I can be wrong sometimes. You do the research next time."

Dean just hums. Content and lazy, reaches his arm over our angel and rests his hand on me. "Gotta say—that's the best way to gank a bitch," he mumbles, settling his head on Cas. Then he closes his eyes, breathes evenly.

Dozes a little, only to come back bleary-eyed, shifting between me and Cas. And, well, I know that look.

"Dean?" I ask. Sit up on my elbow.

"You were... one," he says, like that makes any sense.

Cas twists his head. Puzzled. "One?" he prompts.

"When the goddess appeared. You and Sam," he starts, goes silent a moment. Furrows his brow. Tries again.

"I mean, you—you both looked like Sam and Cas for a moment. Like, one creature or being or something. Somehow." Sounds as lost as he looks.

Cas's infinite gaze shifts to me. I gnaw on my lip. Wait for him to lay the stones.

"That's impossible, Dean," Cas rumbles, fingers quick over my brother's cheek. "You must have imagined it."

I let go of my lip.

"Yeah, I know. Just... It was weird," he grunts. Dismissive now.

I smile at him. Warm and bright and squeeze his shoulder over Cas's body. Marvel for half a second at the way his scar feels _right_ under my hand. Like it fits. "Our lives are weird, dude. Get some sleep."

"Fuck if you have to tell me twice," he sighs. Resettles himself along Cas's side, face pressed into the angel's ribs.

In the near-dark, Cas's eyes catch the light and hold my gaze a moment. Smiles.

It's the first time that we—Cas and I—don't have to speak to know exactly what's been said.

That we're both ready to do whatever needs done to keep Dean, to keep him safe and grounded, to keep him with us. And maybe we are one, in that regard.

I slide down Cas's body a little to pillow my head on his chest. He hesitates for a moment, then lays his hand across my back, palm warm between my shoulder blades, and all three of us, we—

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "I am. Fucking awesome."

"Shut up," Cas and I huff in unison.

Dean groans and I laugh and Cas ruffles his feathers around us and, _finally_, all three of us, we—

Sleep.

Cas slips away early. Pushes hazy kisses into Dean's mouth, into mine.

"There are matters," he says softly. "In Heaven. To which I must attend."

Dean snuffles and burrows into my back and we both smile, at that. Cas and I.

"I'll return, Sam, as soon as I can. Or when you need me. Whichever comes first."

"Ok," I whisper. "Cas. Be careful."

He shakes his head and taps my cheek.

"Yes," he says. "You, too."

Then he's gone and there's only Dean and me, alone.

I squeeze Dean's hands, maybe a little harder than I should, because he stirs. Moves his mouth slack against my neck.

"Sam?" he mumbles.

"I'm here," I promise.

"Where's Cas?"

"Angel radio called him in. But he'll be back."

"Oh," Dean mutters, still not awake enough to have an opinion.

"It's okay," I tell him, leaning back into his arms. "'S all right. Go back to sleep."

He sighs and worms into me, stubble scraping my spine. Reminds me he's real.

"I had the weirdest dream," he murmurs. An afterthought.

"Hmmm?" I say, my eyes drifting.

"I had this dream that you pulled me out of Hell," he sighs. "That you found me and fought for me. Carried me out."

"Is that so?" I ask, trying to keep my heart steady.

He yawns and knots his fingers through mine. "I don't remember. Being saved. I remember Hell. But I don't remember being pulled out."

"Probably for the best," I say. Sleepy smile. Steadfast.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, just a ghost of breath across my skin. Sinks back into sleep.

Safe. Here. With me.

And for a moment, I swear I can feel feathers on my cheek.

Ok. Ok, Cas.

With us.

* * *

(Author's note: This was coauthored by the talented Catchclaw on Ao3, who wrote the Cas to my Sam. Check out the rest of her stuff on archive of our own.)


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